Oldies but goodies...

So, if Aers can poke through Claire's old files and splash her early pics across the blogosphere, why can't I?

Let's give it a shot.

This one here -- almost straight out of the goddamn box. That's actually it behind her. Look at this stone fucking fox:

Tits, babe. Show 'em:

SO close to showing the sweet spot. I'd call her a tease, but he's the one who took the pic:

Hey, don't you try and shush me.

Oh right. Pointing something out.

WTF are you looking at in these ones, woman?

Jesus. You know that's the way I look at you sometimes, right?

When I don't think you'll spot me.

 

Not Feeling It

This morning I was encouraged by one of our resident busybodies to get on here and blog. So here I am.

Fine.

But you know what? Even though as soon as they suggested it, I thought maybe it was actually a good idea, I'm changing my mind more with every passing second.

Disappointed? Too fucking bad.

Sometimes the post is just, "Things are good."

And when they are, I don't know why the hell I would force a blather-fest here just because I'm "overdue" or something.

I'll post when I goddamn well feel like it.

Right now, I'm basking. I had some hella great sex yesterday and still haven't come down from it.

The fucking End.

(holy fuck, was that ever some hella great sex.)

Two Short of Perfect

Me. Him. Claire. Sash.

I mean, there's room in the bed for Het and Aers to fit too, if Aers weren't breaking my damn heart with her damn broken back. But I guess we had some psychic understanding that even just the three of us would wear the boy out.

He overdid it, for sure.

But here's to overdoing it the best way to overdo it if you're going to.

Mmm, damn.

Decisively NOT.

I've been informed I must blog about something tonight or I'll be the odd woman out amongst those of us with our own blogs.

And why would being the odd one out motivate me, exactly?

Honestly, I can't even.

Having an Identity Crisis

Well, not really.

I told the resident male I'm having this impulse -- okay, no, this yearning, to be sweet. Like, just now I was about to type "(ugh)" in front of the word "sweet." But I made myself stop and not do it. And I feel dumb about that and dumb about saying I want to be sweet.

I don't even know why I'm feeling this way.

Holy shit, though, writing about it makes me wonder what the hell I was thinking.

I goddamn love writing like I'm a cynical badass bitch who will snark-stomp you cross-eyed if you give me half a reason to.

So I'm not having an identity crisis, even if I am feeling like I should let my tender, vulnerable side out with my polys.

I guess what I'm realizing is, I have this mask, this persona, that I use to engage the world with. And you know what? It's a fucking kick-ass mask. It's just as much me as the vulnerable, sweet side I'm not sharing here with you right now. Maybe it's even more me, because it's a choice. It's how I enjoy expressing my fucking awesome self. I've made this persona, and I rule with it.

Vulnerability and sweetness are for pussies. But that's cool, because pussies are fucking awesome too. There's a pretty big part of me that's a total pussy -- hidden away inside, waiting, full of gloriously sensitive nerve endings to be touched and filled and kissed and made love to. The part of me that's a giant, soft, slippery-sweet pussy, though, doesn't need to get on the goddamn internet and blab about it how it's feeling and what it's doing.

I need to do that, and the way I like to do it is exactly what I dish out here.

Crisis banished.

And it better not show its fucking face around here again.

Manacle Me on a Highwire

 I'm really in the mood for a cuffed stunt.

I think I'm getting a callus

Our resident male made an agreement with me a while ago. He said if he got caught up dwelling on useless negative shit from useless shitty negative social media conversations, I should thwack him on the skull with my finger.

Maybe it would have been smart of me to remember how thick-headed he is before agreeing to subject my graceful digits to that.

God, I'm Fucking Vain

You know what? Every time I pull up my blog to look back over it, I see my profile picture over in the sidebar, and I think, "God damn, you are fine in that shot, woman." I mean, I'm not saying I have that high a bar when it comes to how hot someone has to be for me to sleep with them.

But I would definitely fuck me.

You Are All in Last Place

Sorry, everyone. But our blissful poly partnership kicks ass over all of your romantic efforts. I'm not saying yours aren't great in their own ways, and I'm not saying you should set yourselves up for disappointment by trying to achieve something on our level.

I'm just saying we fucking rock.

Exultantly yours,

Elle

Ariel.

It's all "Hettie, Hettie, Hettie, Hettie, Hettie" around here, and I'm just as guilty of it as anybody else, but at least I know how to self-diagnose a monomania. So here's a goddamn poem about the most special woman in my life.

You.

Just fucking look at you,

With that long, blond hair,

Eyes an extraplanar blue

(also, often, the green of a paradisaic sargasso)

Soul

drenched

in

ambrosial

purity

and kindness.

I see you, and

... I can't.

I just can't

anything

but love you.

There. I said it.

It has been one hell of a sexy week since Hettie showed up here.

 At the risk of being nouveau cliché, that's the post.